


Sanctuary of Stars

by Eavenne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1910s, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Austria, M/M, Post-War, Pseudonyms, Rating May Change, Romance, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, Undercover, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24983470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eavenne/pseuds/Eavenne
Summary: In a world where history took a different turn, several European countries merged to form two larger nations – the Democratic States of Western Europe, and the United Republics of Eastern Europe.The year is 1915, and Basch Zwingli wanders Vienna, homeless. He’s there as a spy for the West; he’s been tasked to locate the leader of the East, whose office may be in that very city. One day, he meets a man who bears a striking resemblance to Roderich Edelstein, the childhood friend whom he’d long since given up for dead.And this chance meeting changes everything.Edit: Chapter 4 has been deleted due to issues with pacing. I'm going to re-edit it and upload it, merging it with what would have been Chapter 5.
Relationships: Austria/Switzerland (Hetalia), Hungary/Prussia (Hetalia), Liechtenstein & Switzerland (Hetalia), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The fic is written in English, which is used to represent German, the actual language that the characters are speaking. This is why I used the English names of certain locations.
> 
> Switzerland: Basch Zwingli;  
> Austria: Roderich Edelstein
> 
> Enjoy!

Five days had crawled by, and Basch still hadn’t found a place to stay.

He’d wandered through the streets, glancing into shops, pulling his thin coat tighter against the cold January air. Occasionally, he’d happened upon a hotel. He’d walked in and sat in the lobby for a few minutes, just long enough for the ice in his bones to thaw somewhat, but he’d never attempted to stay. He didn’t have the money to waste on temporary accommodations. And homelessness was nothing compared to the front lines.

At first, Basch had lingered in the poorer parts of Vienna. There, he’d searched for the cheapest apartments available, knocking on doors and looking into hard faces and repeating his fake name. “My name is Klaus Vogel, I repair clocks and watches, and I’m looking for a place to stay,” he’d said, struggling to wrap his tongue around the local dialect; “Don’t come here again,” the landlords had replied, slamming the door in his face.

As a result, Basch had initially sought refuge beneath the flickering streetlights. The winter wind had tickled the back of his neck; he’d glanced at the wide, open space, and every fibre in his body had screamed at him to find cover. But then, Basch had thought, he wasn’t at war anymore. Common murderers operated in the shadows; he was much more likely to meet his end in some dark, secluded corner of the city than in the middle of a square. Yet he’d barely forced himself to close his eyes before a rough voice had shaken him awake. “You can’t sleep here,” the policeman had said, bending over him, his white face swimming in the gloom. “Go somewhere else. Don’t bother the good folk of this neighbourhood.”

That was why Basch had spent five long nights in various alleys. He’d laid on the cold pavement, his knees pressed to his chest, letting the squeaks of the city rats spirit him to fitful sleep. To the Viennese elite – the rich, silk-laden people who floated about, their long coats not quite brushing the grime – he supposed he was no better than vermin himself. He’d heard the words falling from their mouths. To them, the relaxed immigration laws would flood the country with evil Western Europeans and cause the death of the United Republic of Eastern Europe. “They killed our people,” he’d heard them say, “and they’re coming to do it again,” and Basch had turned in the other direction and walked as fast as he could, his heart pounding, his hands trembling. Vienna hadn’t been touched by the war. It was as spotless as virgin snow. Its buildings hadn’t been bombed into rubble and its streets didn’t reek of fresh paint. Its men hadn’t shuffled into line in the cold German countryside, dying on the unfamiliar soil of places they’d otherwise have gone their whole lives without ever seeing.

But the East had broken Basch’s entire world over its knee.

And now he was here, three months after the war had ended. Somewhere in the city, the leader of the East might be sitting in his office, nursing a cigar, idly looking over paperwork. No one knew where he was; his location was a matter of the utmost secrecy. But the prosperous, un-ravaged Vienna was certainly a possibility.

That was why Basch had come here, carrying a disguised radio in a worn messenger bag. It was for the good of the people, he’d thought as he’d listened in on conversations, trying to find someone with a link to the Eastern People’s Party. It was for the good of his people, and for the good of the Eastern citizens as well, who had to live under the heel of a corrupt and cruel government. They laboured under restrictive laws. Basch had learned as much while studying up about the United Republic of Eastern Europe – the UREE. That was why he’d come here. That had to be why he’d come here.

But the voices of those he’d lost still clung to him. They whispered in his ears, calling his name, begging him to make things right. He dreamed of his fellow soldiers scrambling for cover as the shells blotted out the sun. He dreamed of kneeling in the pouring rain by his sister’s grave, and he dreamed of his childhood friend too, dreamed of a broken violin lying forever silenced on their grassy hill at night. The East had killed them all, taken their lives with the ease of snuffing out matches. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that they would never talk or smile or laugh again. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. It shouldn’t have happened. It didn’t have to happen. Why had he –

And Basch would take a shaky breath, blink rapidly, and drag himself back to his mission.

Five days had gone by. Five long days of walking till his legs ached; of steeling himself to approach people; of waking up to the UREE’s anthem exploding in the shambling quiet of seven o’clock in the morning. “March forth, countrymen, towards our bright tomorrow!” the loudspeakers cried, their shrill voices echoing in the city. Basch pulled his knees tighter against his chest and squeezed his eyes shut. He mentally thanked Rainer Edelmann, the composer of the patriotic songs that played in the evening. Those, at least, varied in melody and differed from day to day.

And there was one song of Edelmann’s, a slow, subdued song that hadn’t been political in nature. Closing his eyes, Basch focused on the memory. He felt his fingers curl into damp grass, felt the warm summer wind against his face. Something about the song, something shifting and undefinable that Basch couldn’t quite pin down, spoke to a place deep inside him. He didn’t know why. It was a love song. He’d never been in love; he’d never wanted to be with another person, and he never would. “Now that we are parted, I admire your eyes in the stars we gazed at together,” he murmured, remembering the song’s last line.

A boy’s laughter rang out in the depths of his memory.

Something seized painfully in his chest. He took a breath, swallowed, and forced himself to his feet.

That morning, Basch decided to venture into the Inner Town. The warm, rich aroma of fresh bread embraced his cold-stiffened body as he walked past a bakery; he paused for a moment, decided that he couldn’t waste money on breakfast, and walked on with some effort. Within a few minutes, he’d reached the Ring Road, which encircled the Inner Town. A large building loomed before him; Basch looked at the arches and craned his neck to squint at the statues of men riding winged horses. Sprawling before the road, its ivory façade bright under the morning sun, the building seemed to revel in its grandeur. Basch turned away. All buildings, he thought, looked the same as rubble.

Just as he was about to leave, a sudden flash caught his attention. Basch looked closer; a man shifted where he stood, the watch he wore catching the light with the movement. He seemed to be scrutinising it, for he was holding it close to his face. Perhaps there was something wrong with it. At any rate, Basch certainly hoped that that was the case.

He moved closer, rifling through his bag for his list of fees. The man’s dark blue coat fluttered in the chilly breeze. It seemed that he hadn’t noticed Basch’s approach, for he was facing the opposite direction. He was taller than Basch, and certainly well-dressed, for his coat fell flatteringly on his slender figure and his dark boots shone in the sun. Basch stopped half a metre before the man, took a breath, and spoke up.

“Excuse me.”

The man lowered his arm, straightened, and turned around.

Basch froze. His eyes fell on the narrow face, travelled across the mole and the thin lips and the sharp nose, and settled on the man’s blue eyes. Twelve years ago, he’d gazed at another pair of blue eyes. He remembered the way the stars had danced in them. He remembered the way the moonlight had fallen lovingly on that slim face, remembered the curve of that smile, the warmth of those hands –

No, thought Basch. These couldn’t be the same eyes. This couldn’t be the same man. Roderich was gone, gone forever, and Basch would never see him again. He stared at the ground, breathing quickly, his fingers tightening on the document in his bag. Roderich was dead, he thought. Roderich wasn’t coming back. Basch had merely happened to meet someone who bore a striking resemblance to him. Roderich had been Austrian by ethnicity, after all, even if he’d lived in Switzerland. It made sense. It all made sense. It had to make sense.

Slowly, hesitantly, Basch raised his head. The man seemed to have paled; he was staring at Basch, his eyes wide. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something. Basch’s stomach lurched.

“Would – ” He spoke first, cutting the man off before he’d even begun. “Would your watch happen to need repairing? I know how to do it.” The words tumbled from his mouth, and Basch barely knew what he was saying, but he had to keep talking. “I – ” He blinked, yanked his list of fees from his bag, and shoved it towards the man. “I know how to repair clocks and watches. It’s my…” His brain scrambled for the correct word and came up blank. “It’s my…it’s what I do for a living.”

“What you do for a…” The man took the paper from Basch’s hands and looked at it; a few seconds later, his gaze snapped back to Basch’s face once more. A strange emotion struggled in his eyes. “Your…” His voice was strained. “Your name is…Klaus Vogel?”

“Yes.” Basch’s throat was dry.

An odd expression fell over the man’s face like a shadow. “And where are you from?”

“The UREE,” replied Basch. His words hung between them for a few moments, and he saw the other man’s eyes narrow ever so slightly; he realised how stupid his answer was, dug his fingernails into the flesh of his palms, and said, “I’m a local. From Vienna.”

“No,” said the man. It was like he’d become an entirely different person; the confusion on his features had ebbed quietly away, and now his face was calm like still water. “You’re clearly not. If you thought you could fool me with that horrendous attempt at a Viennese accent, you were sorely mistaken. And your supposed Viennese German was equally pathetic. Now, tell me.” Something softened in his expression. “Where are you _really_ from?”

Basch’s heart hammered in his chest. He forced himself to stay in place, to look into the man’s eyes, for if he didn’t stand his ground it was as good as giving himself away. He took a breath. “I – ”

But something behind Basch suddenly caught the man’s attention. His body stiffened; he looked between Basch and the distraction, his eyes darting back and forth, his brows furrowing. A small sigh escaped his lips. Abruptly, he pulled at the strap of his watch, freed it from its buckle, and thrust it towards Basch.

Basch blinked. “You want me to fix it?”

The man nodded. He plunged his free hand into his coat pocket, moving it from side to side as if he were looking for something. “I have to go,” he said, “but I want to continue this conversation later.” He pulled a pen from his pocket, removed the cover, and scribbled something on the list of fees that Basch had given him. “This is my address,” he said, handing the paper back to Basch. “I’ll be home by eight, though I may return earlier. Shall we meet at nine, or is that too late for you?”

“No,” said Basch. Everything seemed to be happening in a blur. “We – we can meet at nine.”

“Excellent,” said the man. He dropped the pen back into his pocket and retrieved a brown leather wallet, from which he drew several notes. “Consider this my payment in advance,” he said, holding the money out. “Feel free to spend it as soon as you will. I’m not going to take it back.”

“You – ” Basch didn’t know what to say, or what to think. He took the notes, counted them, and said, “This is far too much money. It’s more than twice the fee.” He took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and brandished the notes. “What are you playing at?” There had to be something that the man wanted from him. After all, generosity always had a price, and kindness always required a reward. “What do you want from me?”

“What I want,” said the man, his voice steady, “is for you to have a proper meal.”

Basch’s face flooded with warmth. “What?” His fingers tightened on the notes. “You want me to – ”

“Eat something nice, yes,” replied the man. His wallet had already disappeared back into his pocket. “You look exhausted. I’m sure you must have gone through a lot.”

“I – ” Basch wanted to tell the man that he was wrong, that he was completely mistaken, but the words died on his tongue. He gazed at him, gazed at this person who looked so much like his childhood friend, and felt something ache in his chest. “I – ”

“I have to go.” Yet the man was still watching Basch. His eyes seemed to asking a question that Basch couldn’t understand, that Basch didn’t have an answer to. “I’m sorry.” His voice shook. “Please visit later. It would…mean a lot to me.”

He stepped to the side. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, his eyes lingering on Basch’s face; then he strode past Basch and headed towards the large crouched building in the distance, towards the figure of a richly-dressed blonde woman, who seemed to be waiting for him.

Basch whirled around. “Wait!” The word flew from his lips, and the man slowed; he turned, his eyes bright, his face flushed. “I don’t – I don’t even know your name.” Basch took a breath. “What’s your name?”

Something broke in the man’s expression.

But the moment passed, and the man had quickly rearranged his face. “Rainer Edelmann,” he replied. “You may know me as the composer of the songs they play every night, or as…” But Edelmann didn’t continue. He paused, his mouth slightly open, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. He gazed at Basch with wide eyes. His body was completely still, but he seemed to be reaching for Basch, calling his name, asking –

Edelmann looked away, turned his back, and walked forward.

Basch didn’t know how long he stood there. His heart raced. His hands trembled. He shoved the watch and the money and the list of fees into his bag and stood there, staring at the building, staring at nothing. It had to be a coincidence, he thought, it had to be. Yes, “Rainer Edelmann” sounded like “Roderich Edelstein”, but they couldn’t be the same person. Roderich was a poor nobody, and he wasn’t writing songs for the government; Roderich was dead and gone, and he wasn’t coming back. He had ceased to exist. His eyes had disappeared into the starry sky and his laughter had dissolved into the summer wind. If Roderich was meant to come back, it would have happened when Basch had been sitting there, night after night, waiting for him to return. If Roderich was meant to come back, it wouldn’t have happened now, twelve years later, in a place so far from home.

There was only one way to stop life from trampling over his hopes.

So, Basch strangled them with his own two hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of this fic, where Basch wanders around homeless, was inspired by WhisperWeeper's lovely fic "Sentimental Street". Do check it out!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liechtenstein: Erika Zwingli

Edelmann’s watch was in perfect working condition.

Basch stared at it for five whole seconds, his mind completely blank. Then he slammed the side of his fist into a wall and cursed under his breath. He had to be the worst spy to ever walk the earth. Not only had he failed to pass off as a local, he’d managed to make Rainer Edelmann – a man who presumably had connections to the government – suspicious of his identity. But that wasn’t even the worst part.

By leaving his watch behind, Edelmann had quietly laid a trap that Basch had no choice but to fall into.

Leaning heavily against an alley wall, Basch pondered his situation. His first option was to honour his agreement with Edelmann and meet him at nine. But it was entirely possible – and incredibly likely, if Basch looked at it in a purely objective manner – that Edelmann had contacted the police, who would bring Basch in for questioning. The other option was to simply walk off with the watch as if nothing had happened, but that would make Basch a thief. And if Basch was a thief, the police would have an excellent reason to arrest him on the spot.

He narrowed his eyes. It seemed like the best option was to leave the watch at Edelmann’s doorstep, but was it safe to do so? Basch squinted at the watch once more; he wouldn’t be surprised if the jewels decorating the circumference of its face were real diamonds. If he hurried to Edelmann’s house and abandoned it right then, there was a good chance that the watch would be stolen, which would be blamed on him. Basch pinched the bridge of his nose. Briefly, he entertained the idea of slipping the watch through the crack of the door, as if that wasn’t the single most conspicuous thing he could possibly do. He swung his fist at the wall again. His hand throbbed in pain.

“Please visit later,” Edelmann had said, his eyes bright.

Basch dropped the watch into his bag and wrapped his arms around himself. He inhaled; exhaled; struggled against the weight pressing on his chest. He didn’t need to see Edelmann again. He had nothing to say, nothing to prove. But the lyrics of that strangely familiar song danced on his tongue, and a certain memory swam before his eyes; Roderich tilted his head, his face inching closer –

No, thought Basch. His fingers tightened on his arms. No, no, he wasn’t going to think about it, he wasn’t going to think about it, he wasn’t going to think about it. He stumbled out of the alley. It was noontime, and the streets were scattered with people; he cut his way through the crowd, focusing on the buzz of conversation and the winter wind slicing at his face. He dug his hands into his coat pockets. He listened to the snap of his boots against the pavement. He glanced around, searching for the way to the bakery he’d passed by that morning. If he bought something cheap for lunch, he wouldn’t have to touch Edelmann’s money. And Rainer Edelmann was not Roderich Edelstein.

By the time Basch bought lunch, he’d come to a decision. He wasn’t going to see Edelmann. Though he’d leave the watch and money on the doorstep, he wasn’t going to ring the bell or head inside. He didn’t need to know what Edelmann had in store for him. He didn’t need to ask the question that trembled on his lips. After all, he wouldn’t get the answer that he longed to hear, that he didn’t even dare to imagine in the privacy of his mind. It wouldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

Roderich was gone, and Basch could only see him again in death.

Yet the heaviness of that thought seemed to slip away in an instant. Basch tore at the hard bread that he was eating, attempting to concentrate on chewing, struggling to slam a lid on the errant thoughts slipping through the cracks of his resolve. His eyes stung. It just couldn’t be true, he told himself. Edelmann was just suspicious of him. That was why he’d acted so strangely; that was why he’d tried to meet Basch again. And this entire fiasco was Basch’s fault.

This was a train of thought that he knew rather well; he let himself fall into it, let himself plummet into its familiar embrace. It was his fault, because he’d stumbled around Vienna for five days without getting any closer to his objective. It was his fault, because he was an idiot who couldn’t even speak the local dialect properly. It was his fault, because the recruiting officer had looked at him and said, “They killed someone you loved, didn’t they?” and he’d said yes, and that was the only reason why he’d been selected. Basch drew his elbows to his body and stared at his feet. The other spy would be arriving in a week. He’d probably find somewhere to stay within two days. And where would Basch be then? Perhaps he’d be dead. Perhaps the police would finally catch on to his activities, arrest him, and drag him before a firing squad. He imagined the neat row of men in pressed uniforms, imagined the shine of the rifles under the winter sun, and felt nothing. He wondered if it was normal to feel nothing. He wondered if he’d still feel nothing when the moment came at last.

If Heaven existed, was everyone waiting for him there?

Then again, thought Basch, someone like him would never see the light of Heaven.

The day slipped by. His efforts to find any kind of employment culminated in him snapping at the one employer who’d deigned to interview him. “We don’t hire homeless people,” the man had said, but how was Basch supposed to rent an apartment if he couldn’t earn the money to do so? Was he supposed to walk the streets till someone equally as desperate did him in? He sucked in a breath. Shaking off thoughts about his throbbing headache and heavy limbs, he tried to steer his mind in a different direction. The image of a tall, dark-haired man, his blue coat fluttering in the breeze, flashed before Basch’s eyes. The eight o’clock song had come and gone; it was time to risk meeting Edelmann once more. Basch’s heart pounded at the thought.

_“Now that we are parted, I admire your eyes in the stars we gazed at together.”_

Slowly, he raised his head. The night sky was devoid of stars. But even if they were there, even if what he saw now was as beautiful as what he remembered, Basch knew that he’d lost the stars forever.

He’d lost them the moment Roderich had left, and he wouldn’t regain them as long as Roderich didn’t come back.

His hands curled into fists. This couldn’t continue. He was going to march to Edelmann’s front door, put the watch and money there, and never see him ever again. This would end now, by Basch’s hand. And from that moment on he’d never think about Edelmann or delude himself into believing for the slightest moment that the UREE’s state composer might be his long-lost friend. He’d be able to attend to his mission once more, and things would go back to normal. Things had to go back to normal.

No, he thought. He’d never really be able to forget.

But Basch was going to get this first task over with. He walked briskly, glancing at signs to check that he was going the right way. The streetlights glowed yellow in the darkness. A sudden gust of wind tore at his face; it ripped his thin coat into shreds and sliced at his bones. Basch plunged his hands into his pockets. Though he tried to ignore the all-encompassing coldness that was freezing every fibre of his being, the clamp of hunger dragged his attention helplessly back to his own body. He focused on the feeling, swallowing as he felt it gnaw at his stomach. Between the hunger and the cold and the suffocating thoughts, it was the hunger that bothered him the least.

Faintly, Basch heard the bright strains of a violin in the distance. Something stirred deep inside him. His feet moved of their own accord; the music pulled at his wrists and tugged at his ankles till they obeyed its command. An odd, breathless feeling seemed to lift the weight from his every step. There was something achingly familiar about the music. He couldn’t place his finger on where exactly he’d heard it before, but he was certain that he had. A strange, stinging warmth blossomed in his chest. As he turned to walk down another street, he was suddenly aware of the earthy smell of grass. He was in a forest of buildings, but all at once he could feel the grass curling beneath his fingers; feel the cool summer breeze tousle his once long hair. There was something else that he could smell, too. It was a scent that he couldn’t describe. It was the warm, inviting scent of a boy he’d once known. It was the scent of –

The apartment block before Basch bore Edelmann’s address.

He froze. He listened to the warm melody spilling from Edelmann’s window, finally recalled where he’d first heard it, and buried his face in his hands. It couldn’t be. Roderich had written that song for him and played that song for him twelve years ago and Basch hadn’t heard it before or since, but Roderich couldn’t be Edelmann. Roderich couldn’t be Edelmann, for Roderich couldn’t be alive. That was what Basch had been told all those years ago. That was what he’d been told when he’d struck out for Roderich’s home. “The Edelstein family is dead,” the villagers had said, peering at Basch with narrowed eyes, and he’d refused to believe them at first but as the nights had dragged on and he’d waited and waited and Roderich had never come back, Basch had finally given up hope. Now the past had resurfaced again in a swollen, red, inflamed knot of pain and he couldn’t let it win. He couldn’t submit. He wasn’t going to let himself believe that Roderich was alive only to find out that Edelmann had simply found Roderich’s music somewhere and liked performing it. He’d accepted that Roderich was dead, and he’d collapsed on their hill and torn at the grass and cried till he could barely speak, and he wasn’t going to go back. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t lose Roderich again. He’d already lost his home and everyone in it. Why was the world trying to take Roderich from him for the second time?

The music stopped.

Basch raised his head. The vague, blurred outline of Edelmann’s white face appeared behind the window.

He staggered back, turned, and ran. He didn’t know why he was running and he didn’t know where he was heading, but he plunged into street after street and kept going. At long last, he squeezed into a narrow alley and collapsed against the wall, his chest heaving. His eyes burned. His entire body ached. He felt like he was drowning, like he was thrashing in water and struggling to keep his head above the waves but sinking, little by little. The breath that he tried to take dissolved into a gasping sob; Basch threw a hand over his mouth and closed his eyes and refused to cry. Edelmann couldn’t be Roderich, he told himself. Edelmann couldn’t be Roderich. He attempted to grasp at further reasons; he groped around in the fog of his mind, but the words slipped from his fingers. Raising his head, he gazed at the wall opposite him. And he saw something move in the corner of his eye.

A skinny, pale-faced little girl was lying on the ground beside him, her eyes glassy, her small shoulder soaked with blood.

In an instant, the military discipline that’d been drilled into Basch seized control of his body. He knelt by the girl’s side, gently moved her so that her back was resting against the wall, and pushed her clothes aside by a fraction to examine her injured shoulder without exposing it to the elements. Yellow pus clung to the wound in a thick paste. He touched her forehead with the back of his hand; her skin was far too warm. It wasn’t the injury that was killing her, he thought. It was the infection.

With her head propped against the wall, the little girl seemed to be looking directly at him.

Basch glanced around in the darkness, struggling to remember where the closest hospital was. The memory eluded him; he looked down at the girl again, took in her fair hair and light eyes, and tried not to think about his sister. Was this how Erika had looked when her body had been found? He’d seen men die in front of him, he’d seen them choke on gas and shudder with the effort to heave their last rattling breaths and cry themselves to eternal sleep, but he’d never seen someone so tiny die of anything other than illness. No, he told himself. She wasn’t going to die. He wouldn’t let her die. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he wouldn’t –

And the little girl, who had stopped breathing, continued to stare at him.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Basch. He closed her eyes with a trembling hand. The fever that had killed her still haunted her skin; the warmth quickly fled his fingers, snatched away by the winter night. “I’m sorry.” Her tattered coat swamped her doll-like body, engulfing limbs that were as thin as matchsticks. “I’m so sorry.” He pulled his own coat from his shoulders and draped it over her body like a shroud. “I’m so sorry that – that I couldn’t – ” With shaking fingers, he tucked the fabric snugly around her shoulders. Distantly, he wondered if the little girl had left anyone behind. He wondered if she still had a mother. He wondered if her mother had sung her lullabies and tucked her into bed and kissed her goodnight.

“You couldn’t save me,” said the little girl in his imagination, her dead lips moving in the cold darkness.

“I’m sorry.” Something throbbed painfully in Basch’s chest. “I’m sorry.” He saw Erika’s grave before him; remembered the makeshift wooden marker that had misspelled her last name. “If I could give my life to you, I would.” He’d do it in an instant. “I wish I could.” And he’d trade his life for his mother’s and his father’s and Roderich’s, and if he could tear his soul apart and breathe life into everyone he loved so that they could walk and talk and laugh again, he would. He’d do it even if his spirit would wander Hell for all eternity, dying again and again to make up for the lives he’d saved.

The winter crushed his body with an icy fist.

Basch wrapped his arms around himself and shivered violently. “I’m sorry,” he said, gazing at the spectres that trembled on the horizon of his mind. “I didn’t – I didn’t want you to die.” It felt like the coldness now existed within his body, like it had settled deep into his core, freezing him from the inside out. “ _They_ killed us,” said a dead soldier, his voice echoing in Basch’s ears. “I know,” he replied, his voice shaking. He remembered the mud-splattered, uniformed corpses lying far from home in the German countryside; remembered the plot of land where his sister laid buried, remembered how the stretch of earth had been littered with hundreds of wooden grave markers.

He remembered the question that had shone in Edelmann’s eyes.

Basch pulled his stiff limbs against his numb body. “Please,” he whispered, “please, please – ” Please be Roderich, he thought. Please be alive. Nothing else mattered. His mission didn’t matter. His own life didn’t matter. He’d give up anything, everything, if it meant that Roderich would live again. And if Roderich was still alive, that was good enough. Basch didn’t need anything else. If he died here – if he closed his eyes and submitted to the winter – he would die happy, knowing that Roderich still breathed and walked and smiled somewhere else in the city. They didn’t have to meet. They didn’t have to speak.

Roderich didn’t even have to know that Basch had ever been here.

But the world wobbled before Basch in a haze of tears. His heart pounded. Distantly, he heard the sound of Roderich’s laughter drifting on the warm summer wind; saw the twinkling stars dancing in Roderich’s blue eyes. He shouldn’t see Roderich again. He knew better than that. He knew better than to drag the past back to the door of someone who’d clearly moved on. He knew better, so why did it feel like this?

An old, agitated wound tore itself open in his chest.

Basch pressed his face into his hands and cried. This was the right thing to do, he thought. This was supposed to make him happy. So, why wasn’t he happy? Why did it hurt so much? He remembered the last time he’d seen Roderich, remembered the look in Roderich’s eyes that night when their faces had almost been touching, and felt fresh tears form in his eyes. _Roderich_ , he thought, _Roderich, Roderich, Roderich_ –

“Vogel,” he heard someone say breathlessly.

Something warm was draped over his shoulders. “Vogel – Klaus,” said the person, “Klaus, can you hear me? What happened?”

Basch raised his head. Edelmann’s face, wide-eyed and pale, swam in the darkness before his eyes. He blinked. A name that he hadn’t said in twelve years quivered on the tip of his tongue. It was a name that he mouthed when he woke from the sweetest, bitterest dreams. It was a name that he’d thought he’d never say again. He opened his mouth; tried to speak; hesitated; closed it again. Something clenched in his chest. He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t do it. He –

“…Basch?”

A strange emotion struggled in Edelmann’s eyes.

And all the doubts that Basch had stacked up and barricaded himself behind were obliterated in an instant.


	3. Chapter 3

The click of the closing door echoed in the unfamiliar room.

Something snapped inside Basch. He whipped around to stare at the door, at the place where Roderich had last been. His heart pounded. He looked wildly about; he took in the shining dark wood cabinets and the edelweiss wallpaper frieze and the white china vase, and felt a strange ache crash through his body.

Was this man really the boy whom Basch had met all those years ago?

The more that he looked around the room, the more that he gazed at the varnished furniture which shone under the yellow incandescent light, the more that Roderich seemed to be slipping away from him. There was no starlit darkness here, no warm breeze caressing his face and no grass trembling under his fingers. Here, everything was bright, still and polished. It was beautiful in the way that a postcard was beautiful. There was nothing less to it. And there was nothing more.

He shifted where he stood. There wasn’t a speck of dust on any surface; there wasn’t a single stain or improperly-placed object in the entire room, and the sight made him suddenly aware of the five-day-old alley grime that clung to his clothes and skin. A cold sensation wriggled in his stomach. “Make yourself at home,” Roderich had said, but Basch felt as though the filth had coated his entire body in an invisible film. It clogged his pores. It drifted lazily on his skin like oil on water. It was a barrier between himself and the spotless luxury that surrounded him, between the world that he knew and the world that Roderich inhabited, that he simply couldn’t cross.

And Basch remembered the smell of the little girl’s dying body.

So, he just stood there. He listened to the silence, tried not to breathe too loudly, and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Every fibre of his body was dull. He tried to blink away the heaviness in his eyelids, but the weight had, slowly but surely, settled in his bones. Distantly, he wondered what he was even doing in Roderich’s home. They were so different now, so unlike each other, that there probably wasn’t even a point to them meeting. The boy whom Basch had sat with on that grassy hill had disappeared into the shell of this famous, glamorous person whom he didn’t know. And once Roderich found out that the person whose eyes he saw in the stars had become cold and hard and drained of love, their reunion would come to an end. Basch was certain of it. There were so many things that he was unsure of, so many things that his tired mind couldn’t grasp, but he was absolutely certain of this. Roderich would hate the man that Basch had become.

And the door screamed at him, but his chest ached at the thought of leaving forever.

The minutes and hours blurred in Basch’s mind. At some point, he shuffled in front of the radiator and lowered himself to the ground, trying to touch as little of the rich blue-gold carpet as possible. He wondered if it was harder to get dirt off carpets than seat covers; but a wave of relief washed over his stiff limbs, and he couldn’t bring himself to move an inch. _I’m sorry_ , he thought. He stared at the reflection of his face in the glinting, flower-engraved metal of the radiator. _I don’t belong here. I don’t belong in your new life. I came here to destroy everything, and I’ll just destroy you, too._

But he wrapped his arms around himself, laid his forehead on his knees, and stayed.

Basch was still sitting there when Roderich returned. “I…told them that I found her,” he said, locking the door. The familiar words of Basch’s native dialect washed over his ears; he took a sharp breath, and quickly blinked away the stinging heat in his eyes. “And they – ” Roderich’s voice shook. He closed his eyes for a long moment, opened them, and said, “They’re going to take care of everything.” Basch watched as Roderich slowly unbuttoned his coat, hung it on the coatrack, and finally turned to face him. “You – why are you sitting on the floor?”

Their eyes met.

Basch looked away. His hands tightened on his sleeves. The fabric was rough under his fingers, but it didn’t feel real. None of this felt real. He was there, but he wasn’t; he felt as if he were floating above his body, gazing down at the room. Everything seemed so small from his new vantage point. _I look pathetic_ , he thought. _I came to help my nation and my people, but here I am. I’m tired. I’m sore. I don’t know what to say._ Something clenched painfully in his chest. _Soon, Roderich will see how weak I am. He’ll realise that I’m not worth his time. He’ll leave. He’ll leave, just like how I should have left, and –_

“Basch.”

Basch raised his head when he heard Roderich move to sit beside him. Something seemed to crack in Roderich’s calm façade; there was an odd intensity struggling in his eyes, and his lips were slightly parted as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t decide what to say. He shifted closer to Basch. His eyes darted between Basch’s hands and face, and Basch wondered if Roderich wanted to reach out and take his hand; but the moment passed, and Roderich’s gaze fell. Neither of them said a word. A taut, strained silence trembled between them like a tightly-pulled thread.

Then Roderich’s hand was on Basch’s shoulder, and his eyes were bright as he said, “I’m…so glad to see you again.”

Suddenly, it was hard to look at Roderich. Basch averted his gaze and swallowed, trying to ignore the hammering of his heart, trying not to feel the warmth of Roderich’s hand. No, he told himself. He wasn’t going to come undone. If he gave in to the crushing ache in his chest, if he gave in to the ache that had gnawed at him for twelve long years, he didn’t know what he’d do. He didn’t know what he wanted to do.

So, he pulled away from Roderich’s touch. He took a breath, and tried not to dwell on the way that Roderich’s jaw had tightened in response. “I…didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. His throat was dry; he hadn’t spoken his native dialect in months. “I – ” He remembered the long, dark nights he’d spent sitting alone on that hill, remembered waking up every morning to the knowledge that Roderich was never coming back, and all at once the words were spilling from his mouth. “I tore your house apart looking for anything you’d left behind. I searched your village for hours. I asked every single person there where you were, and they told me that – that your family had been hunted down by UREE agents. They told me that you were dead. I thought that you were dead.” His eyes burned. “Where did you go? Why did you have to leave? Why – ” His voice broke. _Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me think you were dead? I thought you cared about me. I thought you’d never do anything to hurt me. I thought you –_

And Basch did all he could to gather his anger around him like a crackling storm, to extinguish the thoughts that blazed in his mind. “I have nothing to say to you,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “We parted ways long ago, and that should be the end of it.” His hands curled into fists. “I’m not the person I used to be, and neither are you. There’s no point in talking now.” You made your choice long ago, he thought. You made your choice when you didn’t even attempt to let me know that you were still alive.

A shadow crossed Roderich’s face. “Basch – ”

“Enough.” He stood, but a sudden wave of dizziness made him stumble; he grabbed the ledge of a nearby cabinet and forced himself to take deep breaths. Roderich audibly got to his feet as well, but Basch refused to turn and face him. He knew that the moment he saw the look in Roderich’s eyes, the swirling cloud of anger that he had cocooned himself within would dissipate in an instant. “I’m leaving,” he said. He tightened his grip on the cabinet, trying to ignore his racing heart. He had to go. He had to go now, before it was too late.

But his feet were frozen and he couldn’t take a single step.

Roderich moved to Basch’s side. “All right,” he said. His voice was quiet and even. “We don’t have to talk. But I bought two apple strudels for you from the finest bakery in Vienna, and I think you should eat them before you go.” He paused. “I mentioned them earlier, but I should have brought them out for you before leaving. Forgive me.”

Vaguely, Basch remembered being told about the pastries. But he’d barely been listening to Roderich on their way to the apartment, for his entire body had been shaking and he’d finally been able to let out a breath that he’d been holding for twelve years. Roderich was alive, Basch had thought, he was alive, he was alive, he was alive. For a few minutes, the world had been beautiful again. For a few minutes, he’d been able to forget about the little girl who’d died in his arms, her blue eyes staring eternally at nothing.

But the memory had swum inevitably back, and the door had snapped shut, and Basch had been alone once more.

“Basch?” Roderich leaned closer; despite everything, Basch looked up. Though Roderich seemed to have carefully arranged his face into a calm expression, his eyes were searching and intent. “Do you want to stay a little longer?”

There was nothing that Basch wanted more.

But he made his nod stiff and abrupt; made himself drag his feet as he walked to a chair. _I’m not going to stay forever_ , he told himself. _I can’t stay forever. I have to leave. I’ll leave right after washing the dishes. Then I’ll go, and I’ll never see Roderich again._

Yet, when his mouth was flooded by the delicious taste of apple strudel, Basch’s mind was whisked worlds away. He took a second bite, savouring the thin crust and the sweet apple filling; he tried to remember the last time he’d eaten a pastry that tasted so good, and couldn’t think of an answer. Was this what wealth tasted like? He glanced at Roderich, who was sitting opposite him with a book open, and wondered if Roderich ate food of this quality every day. It wouldn’t surprise Basch if that were true, what with the way the room was decorated. And if this really was the world that Roderich lived in, what place did Basch have in it?

He continued to eat, trying to make as little noise as he could. Roderich’s head was bent and he was looking at his book, but Basch suspected that he wasn’t reading anything at all. His gaze seemed to be fixed on one section of the page. Tension was rigid in his shoulders, and his body was unnaturally still. At one point, he raised his head and their eyes met; Basch immediately dropped his gaze to stare at his plate. It seemed that Roderich had looked away as well, for Basch heard him turn a page for the first time in what had to be at least five minutes.

Perhaps Roderich had been waiting for an excuse to say something, for he only spoke up when Basch had finished his food. “Was it good?” he asked, straightening up and speaking quickly. “It’s from the finest bakery in Vienna.”

“Yes,” said Basch. He took a sip of beer. “It’s good.”

“That’s good,” replied Roderich. He looked down at his book once more, and stared at it for a few seconds; then he met Basch’s eyes again and said, “You cut your hair.”

 _I was a soldier_ , thought Basch, but he forced himself to hold Roderich’s gaze. “I did.”

The silence that followed was almost deafening. Roderich continued to sit so stiffly that it seemed as though he were frozen in place. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. Every time Basch took a sip of his beer, Roderich seemed to renew his efforts to speak; then at long last, he closed his book, placed it on the table, and said, “Would you stay the night?”

“I – ” No, he should leave now, he had to leave now before it was too late, before he ruined everything –

“I know that you went through a lot because of me.” Roderich’s voice was calm, but resolved. “I hurt you. I know that, and I’m sorry. I don’t blame you for not wanting anything to do with me.” He rested his arms on the table, and leaned forward. “You want to leave. But – and forgive me for my…presumption in saying this – I think you would benefit from hearing the entire story, and perhaps…” Roderich seemed to hesitate. “Perhaps you could find…closure.” He mumbled the last word.

“And what does that have to do with staying the night?” Basch’s heart was pounding.

“I don’t think either of us are in a fit state to talk about the past right now. I’m tired. You’re tired. A girl just – just _died_ on the street.” Roderich’s voice was brittle. “But things happened the way they did for a reason, and I don’t want this to end before you’ve heard what I have to say. That’s why I don’t want you to leave.” He paused. “Besides – would I be correct to suppose that you don’t have a place to stay?”

“I – ” The door screamed at Basch once again, but his feet wouldn’t move. He glared at Roderich. “I don’t need your charity.”

“I know,” said Roderich, “and I’m not offering this from a place of pity. You would do the same thing for me if our circumstances were reversed. You know that.”

The easy familiarity in Roderich’s words made a stinging warmth throb in Basch’s chest. He crossed his arms, and shifted backwards in his seat. “ _You_ wouldn’t last a day on the streets,” he said. Something seemed to tighten in Roderich’s expression, but Basch hurtled on. “There’s no place for music in the gutter. There’s nothing pretty, nothing beautiful there.” His breathing was shallow. “ _You_ wouldn’t survive.”

“On the contrary,” said Roderich, “Music sounds the most beautiful in the gutter. For a few minutes, it lifts people out of the dust and the dirt. It speaks to their souls. It’s a sanctuary of stars in the blackest night.” He narrowed his eyes. “And you’d be surprised,” he said. “For several years, I clung to life like a roach. I scuttled from place to place, waiting for the day I’d be crushed underfoot. Yet, I managed to survive.” His gaze softened. “I don’t know what happened to you. But for me, music was hope. It did more than just reflect the world; it took the ugliness and the beauty that I saw around me and created something greater, something more, something that transcended physicality. It told me that I could have more than the life I was given. It made me greedy. It made me greedy, and I reached out towards it; towards the light that I saw in the darkness. And now, I’m here.” Roderich gestured at the room around him. “Music brought me here, and music keeps me here. But now you’re here too, and…I’d like you to stay. For the night, at least. I want to tell you what happened. I want to tell you why I had to leave, all those years ago.”

The room plunged into silence. Basch tried to make himself look at the door, to force himself to stand up and leave, but something reeled his gaze back to his childhood friend. He stared at Roderich; twelve years trembled in the distance between them. His fingers twitched. He wanted to reach out, to cross that empty space, to – no, no, he couldn’t, he shouldn’t. _I’m here on a mission_ , he told himself. _I have a duty to carry out. I’m not living for myself anymore. I’m not living for myself anymore, and I haven’t been living for myself since –_

Surely, certainly, wasting a few hours wouldn’t hurt.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

“I’ll stay the night.”


End file.
